I confess, I am a voyeur. I spy on birds by luring them in with feeders, birdbaths and flowers. The squirrels come even though I don’t try to lure them in.
A utility area near the house was filled in with stones recently. The squirrels began to check out the terracotta-color stones immediately.
Through my kitchen window, I saw a squirrel pick up a stone, examine it intensely, take a nibble on it, then throw it down. What a silly squirrel, he thinks that rock is a nut. Then he picked up another one and ran off with it.
I guess he took it somewhere safe to hide until it was ripe enough to crack. Maybe a windowsill or the garage. Or in the flower beds and shrubs where I find many of those rocks half buried.
One night I had a vivid dream of this squirrel activity. In my dream I picked up a stone and nibbled at it. Then I said to myself, “The squirrels are right, these stones taste good.” Most dreams I forget, but this one keeps running through my head. This must be a case of squirrelmorphism.
My Ulterior Self